


Hylas

by kinpika



Series: A Perfect World [4]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Because Marx is a poet at heart, During 3rd Route, M/M, No Spoilers, Nothing major just for poetic integrity, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Slight alterations to universe in terms of in game religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 19:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6484735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>A </i>naiad, <i>Marx thinks, again, no longer just a fancy of the wine in his system; he really is one. </i></p><p>Nights in Hoshido are calm and clear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hylas

**Author's Note:**

> i cant believe this ended up as long as it did whoa

It is late, far too late, and yet the wine continued to flow, songs never once taking pause. From where he sat, using a tree as his support, Marx simply smiled into his drink. For once, the Nohrian army was in high spirits, the apparent victory from that day spurring a frenzy amongst his men. Part of him was sure he should put an end to it soon, as they were to march on in the morning, but hearing his men start to sing to their old gods, gave Marx reason against it.

Whilst the men certainly sang the same songs slightly more boisterous and rowdier than his mother ever had, Marx did not mind. With a sigh, he lets his head fall back, a dull thunk against wood that he does not take into consideration. Eyes sliding closed, it does not take Marx long to imagine long blonde hair, a wide smile and arms that wrap around him, so warm and tight, yet so strong. His mother had often sung of old gods and goddesses, with their many husbands and wives and children, starting fights over fleece and rocks and love. 

Beside him, Marx registers the weight against his shoulder before he hears the voice. Opening one eye, slower than he would admit later, Marx spies a shock of grey hair, and rumbles. “Lazwald?”

“Lord Marx,” is the reply, soft and tender, entirely different to a Nohrian man. Marx reminds himself that Lazwald was from another land, somewhere far away, and let his head roll back towards the army. 

“Not enjoying the festivities?”

Lazwald shakes his head, smile on his lips. Marx finds the expression utterly distracting. “Hardly, my lord. Seeing our people celebrate… it is inspiring.”

“I agree.” And he did. Seeing a joy on the faces of his people that had long since been there was filled Marx with firm resolve. Also wine, as he raises his cup to his lips once more, only to find it empty.

There is a twinkle in Lazwald’s eye, as he watches Marx. “Allow me to fill your cup once more, Lord Marx. Also, I would suggest hiding yourself before Pieri catches you. She wants a dance.”

Marx laughs, sound catching in his throat as it is so unfamiliar even to his own ears, and yet it is genuine. “I will make myself scarce.”

Pushing himself to his feet, Marx allows Lazwald to take his cup, and point him away. A part of him knows he should be ashamed, wobbling away from his retainer, hand against trees to support him. A part of him finds he does not care as much as he should, loosening the ties of his shirt, untucking it from his pants. Far too warm, as the light begins to disappear behind him, voices fading.

The trees are different at night, Marx thinks, gazing up to see the sky; _everything is different here._

After another three steps, he hears it just as his foot sinks a little further into the ground. Hand catching on a branch before he stumbles, Marx squints, trying to see between the overgrown bushes. Water was running just ahead of him, still an odd concept even after several months. Whilst back in Nohr, water did run, but it was torrential and damaging, enough to break spirits of even the most hardened soldiers. Here, in Hoshido, the first thing Marx noticed was how the water stilled, a calm and soothing presence. 

Except when it splashed, as it was doing so. 

Marx wondered if it were an animal that had managed to escape the hunting before the festivities. He had a small knife in his boot, of course only there because of his upbringing, but it had served him well nonetheless. A more reckless part of him, left open and unhinged because of the wine, spurred him forward through the bushes. It was not about bringing the animal back to the army, but it was the sudden freedom he felt, casting only one backwards glance as the camp faded away entirely.

A riverbank. Looking left and right, even in the little amount of light, Marx saw nothing in the way of an animal. Perhaps it had been for the best, and just as he was about to slide the knife back into his boot, a light across the river caught his eye. Someone had left a lantern out, an odd thing to do, as everyone had been careful to a fault so far. Marx had half a mind to think that it was just two of the soldiers running amok, sufficiently trying to avoid thinking too hard on that matter.

And then, it happens.

Not moving an inch, as the water breaks, only to watch a form jump up at once. It stumbles, a deep gasp as it gains its footing, followed by a hand running through hair. Marx is transfixed, watching hair be pulled aside. Even in the limited lighting, Marx can see smooth expanses of skin, interrupted only by the faintest scars. They were not visible from this distance, yet Marx knew of each one, how they dipped and dug and gave. Grown over and thin, as if just another ripple on the surface of water.

A _naiad_ , he thinks, even though his mind provides a name to that familiar back. Marx watches Ryouma push himself up onto the riverbank, eyes still not raised. A part of Marx told him to leave, a slight sliver of fear at what if he as found. Watching Ryouma had sobered him considerably, and even though he stumbled back towards the bush, there was nothing to stop watching Ryouma’s naked form appearing from beneath the water repeat behind his eyelids.

That was a memory for another time, another place, far from any riverbanks. A branch cracks underfoot, causing Marx to still. Cursing, for his stupidity, or the alcohol, it is all lost on what he was particularly mad about when he knows he was caught.

“Prince Marx?”

Slowly, Marx releases the bush, stepping back into the clearing. Feet falling into the exact same marks as he had been standing in before, Marx does not meet Ryouma’s eye. “Prince Ryouma,” he greets, tongue heavy in his mouth as he lets the name fall. 

Ryouma does not seem to notice, or it may have been one of his brief moments of consideration. “I am surprised you are not still with your men.”

“I could say the same for you, out here, unarmed with no guard.” Tone clipped, as much as he could. But the alcohol is weighing on him again, as his eyes finally land on Ryouma. Eyes wavering, there was too much shadow to make out much, but that smile on Ryouma’s face was as recognisable as ever.

“Even with wine in you, you still remain as distant as ever.”

Ryouma’s accented standard has Marx’s knee jerk. There is something in the way he can never quite wrap his tongue around his l’s and r’s, a slight lisp present there as he speaks an unfamiliar language. Once, Marx had considered asking him where he had learnt it, how long ago. Once, much younger, Marx had read aloud to Prince Ryouma of Hoshido, receiving nothing but curious stares and a language he had never heard before.

Unable to provide a response, Marx settles for a level stare. Ryouma makes no move either, coolly staring over the water, testing and patient. The upper-hand, Marx muses, he always has it. Even when they were children, running amok. But it always came down to water, and the distance between them.

“You still refuse to swim.” He speaks, once again, voice light and curious. No questions, it never was with him, only simple facts. Marx had still yet to understand the way Ryouma acted, alcohol weighing on him not helping his floundering. “We found a river similar to this when we were children.”

Looking around, Ryouma is smiling, remembering some time before war ravaged them both. “You slipped on the mud and ruined your white shirt. You waited until we had returned to the castle to clean yourself, even though we were right here at the water.”

“And you dove in the water without hesitation,” Marx finally replies, knowing where this story was leading. “Could never resist a body of water, could you?”

Finally, Ryouma laughs, a deep belly of a laugh that Marx finds himself smiling at. How long had it been since he had heard him laugh? There were too many years in the way of a small friendship, that involved mud, water and wooden swords. Something that Marx had simply passed off as a momentary fascination, when Garon moved and Hoshido retaliated. So skewed, he had been back then. 

But now, with Ryouma in front of him, kicking his feet in the river like he was still young and smart, Marx felt those years melt away. Tense as it had been, the last few months, talking again, sharing space. Marx had nowhere clear to start at, no set told definition of how to repair a fractured relationship. No one had ever told him how to act when faced with a man he was told to always hate, apart from to hate and destroy.

So, Marx had followed his mother’s advice, telling stories, writing letters. Ryouma had been as apprehensive at first as Marx had been, but there was investment there, a genuine curiosity. Even after all these years, the relief at seeing Ryouma react so inquisitive about the slightest things settled Marx’s nerves.

When finally, Ryouma had moved, only a week prior. Marx still refused to think about _that_.

“Prince Marx, will you talk to me once more as you had?”

A simple request, when laid out flat on a table. Had it not been for the undeniable weight, and Ryouma’s voice yearning, burning, from the other side of the river. A week prior, Ryouma had kissed him, causing everything to fall in place. A week prior, Marx had pushed him aside, mortified with the both of them.

“I do not know if we can return to how we were…” It was the truth. Marx was unsure how to go down this road, which direction to take, whose orders to follow. There was no book to study, no notes from classes to look over. Unknown territory was like setting foot in the murky depths of the water ahead, unable to reach the other side, where something warm and comforting may have been all along.

Ryouma sighs, quiet and almost unnoticeable, had it not been for Marx watching, waiting. Expecting a reaction like that. Maybe Ryouma had finally given up on the chase, and Marx would not blame him. With his sweaty palms, and unsure gaze, Marx would not be a good prize to receive at the end of several months worth of work. 

Marx misses the splash, but watches as Ryouma’s head bobs up, until all that is visible is the slant of his eyes and the tip of his nose. It was an oddly terrifying thing, seeing him draw so close, able to cross the line so easily without any concern for his own wellbeing. What if he had gotten hurt in the process? Who would be there to look after him in the end?

Slipping as he tried to step back, Marx lands on the soft soil as Ryouma breaks the surface. Staring, and only breathing when it was too hard to continue to hold his breath, Marx thought. Ah, maybe it would be me to look after him.

“Prince Marx,” Ryouma murmurs, pushing himself up onto the bank, sliding close like he had done it only a dozen times before, “Prince Marx…”

“Y-yes?” Marx swallows, eyes sliding down, only once, to see a dark patch of hair before he snaps to the eyes that bore into him. 

“Can I keep you?”

A laugh bubbles between his lips, as Marx pushes himself back. “Did you have some wine too, Prince Ryouma? Any other day…” Yet despite his attempt to avoid that question, his heart hammered away. Something in him broke, a resolve that he was not entirely convinced he still had.

Ryouma does not let him be, a slight twist of lips as he shakes his head. A tenderness in his face was gone, the deflection from Marx weighing on him, once again. “Your wine is different. Sweeter than ours.”

“Ah, yours is made of rice, is it not?”

“ _Sake_ ,” Ryouma confirms, his natural tongue soft and Marx watches his mouth form the word. “Far stronger, too.”

Marx can feel the water drip onto his cheek as Ryouma leans over, not catching words as he simply waits. His hand slides up to grip Ryouma’s arm, fingers digging into the muscle there as Ryouma finally stills, hair falling over his shoulder. It was like a sheet had been pulled around them, and all Marx could see was _him._

“We should return,” he whispers, despite the cool skin and warm breath fanning over his face. Wine was thick on Ryouma’s breath, sweet and making Marx’s head spin.

Ryouma lowers them, resting on his forearms either side of Marx’s head. There is a seriousness there, that is normally lost in the heat of battle and the arguments over the war table. “Please, do not run from me again,” he murmurs, “every time you leave… I cannot take it much longer.”

“Prince Ryouma…”

Finally, Ryouma raises his eyes, meeting Marx’s, half lidded and wanting. “Please,” he repeats, voice not wavering, as he repeats the word over and over. “Please, Prince Marx, do not leave.”

Resting a dry palm against Ryouma’s wet cheek, Marx thought of many a men who had lost their way to the seductions of water nymphs. Maybe this was his turn, and despite never thinking this was how he was going to go, Marx did not mind so much. Fingers tracing the curve of Ryouma’s jaw, strong and set as he waited, Marx followed what little water continued to run down his face.

“I am in your hands,” he answers, despite the burn of uncertainty, no law telling him how to follow next. It may have been the wine talking, after all, but Ryouma’s face lit up with a newfound level of glee. Whilst his nerves did not settle, no matter how gentle the hand was that pressed against his collarbone, Ryouma murmuring his thanks over and over, slipping between the standard and his mother tongue, eased him.

“Look after me,” is all he says, as Ryouma kisses him like no time had passed since the last. “Treat me well.”

“ _Always_ ,” Ryouma promises, between chaste kisses, testing waters. “I would never hurt you.”

“I know.”

And he did. Since they had begun this march, Ryouma’s uneasiness had melted into a dragging confidence, pulling Marx this way and that, encouraging him to be someone else. Or maybe, it was to be the person he was meant to all along. Had it not been for the steady hand at his back, leading him into unfamiliar territory, Marx would never have believed those tales of just how charismatic Ryouma was.

“May I touch you?”

A slight nod, just as hands slide under the material of his shirt. Sucking in a breath, as they were cold against his warmed skin, Marx let himself be touched, let himself revel in the feeling of someone not judging him for how he was, or how he was supposed to be. Ryouma’s hands shook, tracing the lines of his waist, taking material higher and higher. Weight on Marx’s thighs, shifting constantly, rocking with each touch and gasp, whilst he simply pressed his lips to the corner of Marx’s mouth.

There were no more words, just a passing of lips as Ryouma’s fingers fanned over the swell of Marx’s chest. Eyes sliding shut, Marx did not open them again, until Ryouma pressed a light kiss to one closed eye. Intimate and far, far too close. Marx felt like he was watching himself from some far off place, as Ryouma settled himself, pressing their bellies together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Shivering, as he could feel the hot press of skin against his hip, Marx opened his eyes just a fraction to peek down again. With no way to fight the blush that burned from the tips of his ears and down his chest, Marx was not entirely sure where to look from then on. 

Ryouma murmurs an apology, although Marx cannot quite place what for. Steadily, letting his hands rest on Ryouma’s hips, Marx wondered what to do next. So much he wanted to do, wanted to touch, wanted to kiss. Ryouma’s skin was drying, yet his hair still hung, damp and curling against his cheek, as Ryouma sat up. Winding a piece around his finger, Marx followed it up, brushing through knots and appreciating the little sigh Ryouma gave when he reached his scalp. Blunt nails scratch at a spot behind his ear, before Marx flattens his fingers, holding Ryouma’s head just there. 

“I am unsure of what I should do,” he admits, as Ryouma turns his head to press his lips to the heel of Marx’s palm. “I—”

“Here.” Ryouma takes the hand from his cheek, running it down his chest, over bumps and lines, nails brushing and catching. Further still, to the dark patch of hair that sat low on his belly, and south again, hot and dry skin, yet hard in the palm of Marx’s hand. “Touch me, Prince Marx.”

Ryouma’s cock twitches, as Marx runs the tips of his fingers over pink skin. It would be like myself, he tells himself, repeatedly so, as his grip steadily begins to tighten, forming a fist. His grip is rough, and Marx has a moment where he considers spitting in his palm.

So he does.

A groan from Ryouma tells him it was the right thing; a spur of confidence running through him as he has the man melt into his hand. Ryouma lays a hand on his shoulder, hips jerking into Marx’s hand, grinding against his own front that only serves to make Marx more determined. More fierce in his ministrations, as Ryouma moans and grunts and _talks_ , in everything but the standard language. Reducing Ryouma to such a mess was something Marx had dreamt of a number of times, but to hear, to see it happen in front of him, was something else.

“Prince Ryouma, is this—”

“Ryouma,” heavily accented, yet the strain is visible in his voice, “just Ryouma for tonight, please.”

“A-ah.”

No honourifics was strange, almost too personal. But there is a laugh on Ryouma’s face, as his nails dig into the material of Marx’s shirt, and his body goes tight, like a string of a bow, about to be released. “Marx,” he sings, thighs shaking around Marx’s waist, his free hand around Marx’s wrist. Holding him there, as he continued to crow. “Marx!”

Grunting, Marx is able to tear his eyes away, for only a moment, to notice is own discomfort. Ryouma’s adventuring before had dragged his pants down enough to pronounce the swell of his cock, still bound in his loincloth. Had it not been for Ryouma’s insistent hips, a slow and merciless drag of skin over whatever was exposed of Marx, he might never have touched himself.

Maybe Ryouma understands, if the next move he makes was anything to go by. Marx reminds himself, that when he was far less wound up in the mass of hair, to remember that Ryouma was far faster than his considerably bulky form made him appear to be.

“W-what?” Staring down at Ryouma now, hair fanning around him, curling in the grass, Marx was not sure how to react again. Did he do something wrong? Nerves chewed at his gut, gnawing into the blooming heat.

“ _You are beautiful_ ,” is the only response he receives, but he does not understand. Ryouma has a smile on his lips, repeating the phrase in his mother tongue once more. Marx could only understand the tender tone, cheeks burning despite the confusion at the cheeky grin that grew.

His next question is drowned out by the kiss, far more pressure this time, teeth clicking as Ryouma laughs once more. Those words again, followed by more, more words that are just an elaborate noise to Marx. Words upon words fall from Ryouma’s mouth, as his kisses grow more heated, as his hips gyrate once more. 

Marx groans, pressed entirely against his front now. It was different, with Ryouma’s legs spreading under his hands, while fingers worked at the tie of his loincloth. Blind lust fills him, when his own cock is free, and Ryouma’s hands wrap around them both. Slick from come and spit, sliding against each other while Marx moves, no direction telling him this was right, but it felt like it was.

Having Ryouma like this felt _right_.

He has no recollection of coming, only remembering behind his lids Ryouma’s face as he comes, twisting with pleasure. As his back arches into the ground, muscles contracting and relaxing in his arms. The squeeze of thighs around Marx’s waist, pooling warmth in the palm of his hand.

With some effort, Marx looks up at the night sky, watching stars stare back. Clear skies were still so foreign to him, and he was taking advantage of being able to see the moon and the sun. 

“You will catch a cold just laying there.”

Pushing himself up, Marx spies Ryouma, leaning against the bank once more, feet occasionally bobbing up to the surface. Chin resting on folded arms, it was like years had been wiped from his face. A soft smile that Marx did not understand rested on his lips.

“Says the man swimming naked at midnight.”

Laughter, unbound and loud, resounds around the area, as Ryouma pushes back from the surface. “Join me,” he insists, raising an open palm.

“No, thank you.”

A mumble, that even in another language sounded vaguely like an insult, came from Ryouma, only for him to disappear under the surface of the water once more. Bubbles slowed, before disappearing entirely. Marx knew this trick of Ryouma’s, as when they were younger he had fallen victim to it once, but he could not deny the growing worry as Ryouma did no surface.

Crawling closer to the edge, Marx only saw his reflection in the surface. Bruised lips, mussed hair. Shirt discarded somewhere between the second and third time he was subjected to Ryouma’s hands, and even in the limited lighting he could see pink lines along his waist. Reaching out a hand, whether to smack at his reflection or to just see if the water was as warm as Ryouma had promised, Marx was not sure what possessed him to. Maybe it had been idle fascination, to prove something to himself.

Light eyes stare up at him suddenly, but Marx is too slow. Fingers wrapping around his wrist, Marx is pulled into the water with a yelp, his free hand flailing for purchase on the riverbank. He finds none, only water that was not as cool as he had first thought, but not warm either. 

Yet that did not matter as he sunk. Squeezing his eyes shut, Marx tries to pull himself up, kicking his feet, fingers reaching for the surface. No, he thought, no no no! Not again! A single moment, where he opens his eyes, and sees dark tendrils floating by, sees a face laying above.

Arms around his waist, and he is hoisted up, hands sliding to push at his belly. Marx breaks the surface of the water, coughing and heaving, refusing to open his eyes as he finally dug at soil with his fingers. A hand at his back, a body pressing against his side, and Marx finally opens his eyes. 

Ryouma’s eyes are wild and bright, apologies falling from his mouth so fast, too fast, switching back and forth between languages that it eventually melds into one. Marx does not quite hear them all, tilting his head and grimacing at the feel of water dripping out of his ear. 

“I did not know — when we were children, you swam with me once — I assumed—”

Holding up a hand, pressing it firmly against the centre of Ryouma’s chest, Marx silences him. “It is fine… Give me a moment to breathe.”

Ryouma does, pushing back from the edge. It was unfamiliar, being so suspended when the ground was just there. Under his fingers, the dirt began to give way. Scrambling, any laziness he had left in him went to panic, sheer cold panic, as he tried to hold on, tried to keep hold.

“Here, hold on.” Ryouma was against him again, arms either side.

Twisting fingers into grass, Marx looks over his shoulder, pride taking a beating at the mix of sympathy and uncertainty on Ryouma’s face. How pathetic, he thought, tilting his head back. Afraid of a little water.

“Marx,” Ryouma says, voice soft, “face me.”

Eyes darting to Ryouma’s, Marx considered not doing as he asked. This was too overwhelming, once again, as it had been only a week before. Yet he does, with a sigh, and some manoeuvring, Marx resigned himself to letting his weight rest on Ryouma’s shoulders. Ryouma dips under the water again, hands dropping to Marx’s waist and heaving him up. 

Now sitting at edge of the river, Marx felt safer, as if there was only so little area to worry about now. Ryouma rests his hands on his knees, thumbs tracing patterns through the wet material of his pants. “I am sorry,” he stresses, again, standard now, voice firm. “Had I known—”

“No one knows,” Marx murmurs, placing a hand over Ryouma’s. “I would prefer if…”

“Of course…”

Squeezing his fingers, Marx leans back. It had been far too much, his gut constricting, chest still sore from lack of air. The image of a beast before him, as he had fallen to the bottom of the river, struck hard and true, making him shudder. So familiar, and yet so foreign.

“Is this why you left me last week?” Ryouma inquires, after a moment. “I thought it had been something I said.”

That nervousness creeps in, as Marx tries to find his voice. Explaining his aversion to water was not something he had done proactively, opting to just charging ahead and worry about it all later. But the previous week, it had been in the baths, and just them. Less water, and yet as Marx had fallen back, it was enough. “I — yes. One day… I will tell you why. Just please, bear with me.”

“Always, Marx. I would not leave you over a little bit of water.”

Frowning, as Ryouma splits into another smile, Marx does not comment. Instead, he watches as Ryouma pushes from the surface, resting on his back and simply opting to float in the middle of the river. A _naiad_ , Marx thinks, again, no longer just a fancy of the wine in his system; he really is one.

As Ryouma loops around, swimming back with firm strokes, Marx can only smile. Just enough, as his limbs still felt heavy, too exhausted to move. The shock of the water had almost erased the feelings from before, and Marx was not sure if he would be able to regain that feeling so soon.

Marx should not have been surprised at Ryouma’s ability to change his perspective in an instant. What a charismatic man, he mused. As Ryouma drew closer, there it was with the long hair, dark and heavy, sinking into the water, the alight eyes, glinting under a deep brow. Strong jaw with round cheeks, a hint towards a childishness that Ryouma vehemently denied. If he could capture that moment, painted and on display, as Ryouma swam towards him, Marx was sure that amongst the other paintings of great beasts and mythologies, it would not look out of place. 

Hands return to his knees, as Ryouma hoists himself up for a brief touch of lips. Cool and clear, like a painting he had once seen in one of his mother’s books. Marx runs his knuckles along the back of Ryouma’s cheek, rapping there twice just as Ryouma falls back. This would do, Marx knows, just a moment like this. Ryouma’s hands at his boots, pulling them free and kissing the bone of his ankle, eyes holding Marx’s. Worry slips away, a far off memory, as the water does not disturb Marx so much with Ryouma there. The only fear was being taken away, drowning in complete pleasure.

 

 

“What was it you called me before?”

“Pardon?”

“Nay-id? N-nay-aid…”

“ _Naiad_?”

“You Nohrians and your funny language… yes, that one.”

A smile. “Nothing. Just some silly musings.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> ryoumarxxxxxxx slays  
> ["i touch myself" playing in the bg]
> 
> ryouma probably skinny dips a lot don't question me that boy has no shame
> 
> and i was gonna hold off posting this until i got up to this in my other ryoumarx fic but w / e I'm weak here it is i'll just ref later bc i wanted to use that chap for smth else anyway
> 
> also w the title "hylas":  
> he was heracles lover boy back in the time before who knows when and was abducted by some water nymphs who fell in love with his beauty bc thats how they did shit back then apparently and heracles went mad looking for his bae before hylas was just like nah bro i rly like it in the bottom of this goddamn rIVER after all with my nymph wives and so heracles went fuck it and drove off with the argo
> 
> greek history is amazing and i only chose it to compare ryouma to a naiad and marx being hylas this great beauty and being stolen away ok yeah (beach dlc fish diving in a fundoshi broke a few things in me too).


End file.
